The conversation was getting out of hand. Some of the Bay Area media's sharpest minds were discussing the brilliance of Tim Lincecum, to the point where they wondered if he'd surpassed Juan Marichal as the greatest pitcher in San Francisco Giants history.

Having watched Marichal extensively from his rookie season through his prime, I almost coughed up my Clamato. But wait; they came to their senses and raised a more valid question: Who would you start in Game 7 of a playoff series if both men were at their best?

That's when the measure of Lincecum's artistry truly comes into focus. You just might take the kid. At the very least, in terms of sheer talent and his impact on the game, Lincecum has drawn even with Marichal - and best of all, the comparison gives younger fans a priceless frame of historical reference.

As Lincecum deals from his custom-made deck of cards, it's like watching Marichal all over again. The "Dominican Dandy," as he was called, broke into the big leagues with a one-hitter and 12 strikeouts against the Phillies on July 19, 1960. He captivated fans with his outrageously unique delivery and a sense that true genius was in play. His starts became can't-miss affairs for Giants fans already blessed with the presence of Willie Mays, Orlando Cepeda and Willie McCovey in the lineup.

Major differences

There are differences between the two, to be sure. The Giants list Lincecum at 5 feet 11, and he appears to be at least 2 inches shorter. Marichal, at an even 6 feet, seemed infinitely taller. Lincecum made an easy transition from his home near Seattle to the chilly San Francisco weather; Marichal didn't speak English when he came to America, and he was so homesick, he thought seriously of returning to the Dominican Republic.

Lincecum's mechanics are precise and unerring, as if designed in a science lab. Marichal operated on instinct, improvising as he went, often changing his arm slot (sidearm, three-quarter, over-the-top) from pitch to pitch. Lincecum, operating in an age of senseless pitch-count paranoia, seldom gets to finish what he starts. Marichal threw 244 complete games - take a moment to let that incredible number sink in - and crafted a career-defining classic in 1963: outdueling Warren Spahn for 16 innings in a 1-0 Giants win over the Milwaukee Braves.

In terms of accomplishment, Marichal can only feel envious of a pitcher who, at the age of 26, already owns two Cy Young Awards and pitched the clinching victory of a World Series. Remember, though, that during the first four seasons of Marichal's prime (1963-66), there was a single Cy Young Award covering both leagues, won by the great Sandy Koufax three of those years. Marichal was part of a deep and well-balanced rotation when the Giants won the 1962 pennant, and because he started the playoff series-clinching game against the Dodgers, he pitched only once in the World Series against the Yankees, working four scoreless innings in Game 4 before being forced to leave with an injured hand.

It goes without saying that Lincecum isn't within a continent's reach of Marichal's career numbers. At a time when the National League had a veritable galaxy of great hitters - Hank Aaron, Frank Robinson, Roberto Clemente, Billy Williams, Pete Rose, Tommy Davis, so many more - Marichal posted seasons of 25-8/2.41, 25-6/2.23 and 26-9/2.43. People will point to that latter season (1968) as the so-called Year of the Pitcher, so statistically imbalanced that it forced a lowering of the mound, but that hardly bothered Marichal. Under the new rules, he came back in '69 with 21 wins and his career-best (2.10) ERA.

Rose often said that although Koufax threw harder and Bob Gibson was a fiercer competitor, Marichal was the best pitcher he ever faced. "I had a better fastball and slider," Gibson said years ago, "but because of his absolute control, Marichal was the best of our time - better than me and Koufax."

Not a turn - an event

So we've dispensed with the basics. Now let's get to the poetry.

For all that separated these two men, they are forever linked by images. Capture a freeze-frame of Lincecum's follow-through, the right leg pointed directly skyward with the precision and elegant grace of a ballet dancer; that could only be Lincecum. As the statue outside AT&T Park so clearly reveals, Marichal's left foot was actually above his head at the peak of motion; nobody threw a baseball like that.

As such, their starts were more than turns in a rotation. They were events, a source of fascination to people with only a passing interest in the sport. "There wasn't the media hype back then," said Art Santo Domingo, a Giants statistician and public-relations director during the 1960s, "but it was still a big deal when Marichal pitched, especially against L.A., whom he beat so often. And every year he'd be a little different, because he tried to add a pitch, or a new angle, every season."

Mike Krukow, who is roughly my age and had the same experience watching Marichal at Dodger Stadium and on television (even in the mid-'60s, the Dodgers televised most every game from Candlestick), thinks it's a valid comparison. "If you're picking someone for that Game 7, you're kind of getting the same guy," he said. "Unbelievable stuff, instinct at that special level, and both with a great mean streak, as competitive as anyone who ever played this game.

"Tim may look about 5-9 in the hotel lobby, but when he gets on that mound, he's Randy Johnson," said Krukow. "It's too bad he's in a generation that doesn't allow the complete game, because he'd have a bundle by now. He's a 150-pitch guy. It's going to be very, very entertaining to watch his career, because he's still learning, still getting better in quantum leaps."

It was a privilege to watch Koufax, Tom Seaver or Roger Clemens exhibit their Hall of Fame credentials, but theirs was a chiseled, conventional brand of pitching, absolutely by the book. Roger Angell, perhaps the greatest of all baseball writers, described the high-kicking Marichal as "like some enormous and highly dangerous farm implement," and this is how Angell captured Lincecum after he'd beaten the Phillies' Roy Halladay in the opener of last year's National League Championship Series:

"Lincecum is way more entertaining out there than Halladay; he's more fun than Nuke LaLoosh. His pitching motion invites similes and multiple-angle replays. Wait for that mound-eating stride of his; he's a January commuter arching over 6 feet of slush. Look at the tilt, the twist and torque, the flying arms, the balance lost and regained, the skinny bod, the high-school hair: He's an X-Games skateboarder headed for the Olympics. Nobody has ever pitched like this before."

And when it comes to pitching's theater of the occult, a singular experience that links generations, San Francisco's patrons are the luckiest on Earth.

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